( open )

[redactions]

| characters | Bucky and you.
| date/time | Thursday afternoon.
| location | Around
| rating | G.
| summary | The best way to greet your neighbours is to feed them.
| note | I wrote in prose but feel free to use brackets.



He falls asleep instantly on the moss bed, the smell of it familiar and steadying. Combat lends sleep of no restful kind but he barely dreams at all, waking up as soon as the first ray of light peers through the window. There's a moment of bewilderment, and then reality introduces itself to him all over again as he notices the wings are still there when he picks up his gem. He flattens them self-consciously, before finally deciding they take up too much space and leaves the gem carefully tucked under his pillow.

Breakfast, however, is the immediate problem. He saved some water from the rains and an edible mushroom, and it's boiling away merrily on the stove. The glow worm is unusually cooperative, but Bucky supposes that if he's now the size of a dragonfly it's not the weirdest thing in the world.

It's actually nice. He could get used to it.

Once the worm's been sent off with an appreciative scratch on the head, he picks up the large bowl of stew and starts knocking on a few doors.

'Hello?'

Comments

[dissemblance]

He was a symbol when the country needed a symbol. It may be a little-- [one corner of her mouth quirks down,] 'cartoonish', but it endured, and it's meant something different to every generation since. Something important.

[The smile comes back, a bit shy.]

I dressed up as him once for Halloween. That was... the year the Soviet Union fell.

[She was busy hating him, actually, for everything he stood for. But in hindsight, if the little girl she never got to be knew Steve Rogers the way Natasha does now, it could have been a reality.]

[redactions]

[ 'The country', and not 'we'. He smiles wryly, not truly feeling it in his heart, but it does reach his eyes. ]

S'pose it does.

[ He doesn't want this on his best friend, even Steve can - and would - carry it. It's a selfish wish, just like 'don't go to war'. He's got no say in it anymore, perks of being dead. ]

For what it's worth, I bet you looked swell.

[dissemblance]

[Her smile turns a bit coy.]

I did all right for myself. My shield was made out of a cereal box. And I may have punched a boy for telling me Captain America couldn't be a girl.

[redactions]

[ He laughs, light and honest. ]

Damn right.

[ Still cheerful, ] So anything else about the War you want or y'wanna get a head start on your two questions?

[dissemblance]

Funny, I don't think you actually answered my question at all. I asked what you thought of it.

[James Barnes, the man. Not the sergeant, or the symbol. Just him.]

[redactions]

[ Another soft hmm, as he sits back. The honest sentiment takes no thought, it's the words he needs to choose carefully. ]

It was worth dying for.

[ Anna's smart. The only reason she hasn't mentioned his death is because - what? Probably being considerate. He could have talked about how it wasn't just the good fight, it was taking care of your buddies, seein' what was really out there threatening the world. They'd come across a few camps; he'd been in one. But in the end - would he die again? The answer's simple. ]

[dissemblance]

[Her expression softens. Anna may be sympathetic, but the scope of the sympathy and the deeper understanding comes from Natasha's own life.]

A lot of people thought so.

[Gentler,]

It wasn't April, was it.

[It's a question in all save inflection. She already knows, and so does he.]

[redactions]

[ He swallows the joke about wasting one of her questions on this. ]

It's May.

[ He remembers it was cold, and nothing like the death he imagined or wanted. You were supposed to die quick: bullet through the head, grenade, a good sniper. Or slow, with a friend, so at least somebody was around to hold your hand, or kiss your brow as death came (and would Steve, had that been the case? It was always the other way around with him at Steve's bedside). All that'd been there for Buck in the end was that damn ravine, and the grey sky, and the thought that it just wasn't fair at all. ]

[ Softer, ] I'm sorry I lied to you.

[dissemblance]

I'm a stranger to you, James. It's none of my business, and you deserve whatever secrets you have a mind to keep.

[It's not your fault. It echoes in the stillness of her mind.]

[redactions]

Yeah, but you knew and you coulda stopped me right there.

[ He shrugs. ]

[dissemblance]

Well. Where I'm from, I was taught to respect my elders.

[It's a light, teasing statement. No hard feelings, Barnes.]

[redactions]

Oh. Ha-ha. That's funny.

[ If she's counting the honest smiles, it's up to two now. ]

Next question?

[dissemblance]

Planes or boats?

[It's innocuous enough, as these things go. Natasha has his measure.]

[redactions]

[ Cramped ships versus rattling aircraft. Not much of a choice, but he'd rather die a fiery death than drown. ]

Planes.

[dissemblance]

I think that makes us even. Your turn.

[She's counting the comment about April as one of her two.]

[redactions]

[ And he wasn't, so he raises a questioning eyebrow. ]

Sure you ain't got one more?

[dissemblance]

[He gets a look that's equal parts amused and exasperated. Then,]

Favourite baseball team?

[The answer's a given, but if he's determined to add 'fairness' to a simple game, she's going to make him work for it.]

[redactions]

[ She gets a equally amused but exasperated look. ]

Seriously?

[dissemblance]

Seriously.

[Don't make her come over there.]

[redactions]

[ SIGH ]

The Dodgers.

[dissemblance]

Now was that hard?

[Annnnd she's back to being gently teasing in his general direction.]

[redactions]

No, ma'am.

[ fine he will just tease you back see how you like it!! ]

Favourite piece of art?

[dissemblance]

[Without hesitation,]

Led proshel by Abram Arkhipov. Done in 1895. I saw it in person once, in Russia.

[True. She's always loved his work, and picking a favourite-- it fits.]

[redactions]

It sounds nice. Wish I could've seen it.

[ He smiles, without self-pity. ]

[dissemblance]

[Maybe one day you will. Natasha's words, meant for the Winter Soldier. Instead,]

It's thirteen people standing on the shoreline of a river, mostly children but a few adults, and one elderly man holding a child tucked into his jacket. Everyone is still heavily dressed, but the light is soft and bright, conveying the hope of a new season. Most people think it was a depiction of a river near his village, Yegorovo. It's not his most famous piece, but it's always stayed with me.